Demon Days
by Frustration At Its Finest
Summary: He remembers the end of the old world, but he's having some trouble with figuring out the new one. It's difficult enough to navigate on your own, but then again, It's been a long time since things have been simple. Post apocalyptic au. Rated M for violence, language, and dark subject matter. Updated 3/24/15
1. Intro

Note: Soooo this is a bit different than what I usually do. I'm going to try to write this fic from A new perspective. I really hope you enjoy! Rated M, but purely because of language, violence, and dark subject matter.

* * *

He agreed to make the world better with a hammer in his hand and concrete burns on his knees. Somebody had to help rebuild the ruins of this world, and it would be his honor to do so.

Then they'd shoved a gun in his hands as all hell broke loose around them, screams of all people of all ages deafening him, the flashes of explosions so blinding he was sure his sight would never return to normal after that, if even a future existed for him. They romanticised death so much in the media, back when the TV's and internet and all that shit still was a thing, like the death rattle of hundreds could be beautiful, like hearing the souls of your friends ascend would be a peaceful thing.

They're in a better place now, right?

They had to be.

This is what his gram had said all those years ago as they watched his poppy take his final few breaths, watched his eyes lose their light and his soul leave his tired body. She told him,

"Baby don't you worry, he's in a better place now. Someday, a long, _**long **_time from now, God willing, you'll be able to tell your grandad just how much you missed him. It'll hardly seem like minutes to him, but it'll feel like an eternity to you. He won't be lonely, so you shouldn't be either."

She made it sound so calm. So lovely.

The screeching around him is anything but. He hates that his gun is at the ready, that he's absolutely prepared to pull the trigger if the time comes, but survival instinct is a strange thing.

It's selfish.

But morals get a little blurry in times like these.

Who knew a few solar flares were EMP blasts so intense they would render all electronics useless? Planes falling out of the sky, cities going dark, internet useless, swiped clean. All the history, gone. All the technological developments, gone. Medical records and experimental data, gone. He's amazed at how the world works so hard to get to such an advanced place, but something always brings it to its knees. He chuckles to himself mirthlessly as he thinks of the fall of Rome. All good things must come to an end.

Some radical groups decided that everyone should start with a clean slate. No one can hold over your head that underaged DUI, no one can go on your facebook to dig up embarrassing or incriminating shit anymore. Everyone is equal now, and everyone's actions from this point on is what determines what kind of people they are. He likes the concept, but the means of creating a world like this…

He wanted to build, not destroy.

Some people thought they should just let things fizzle out; no education system, no agricultural system, no medical system. Everyone fends for themselves. Population control. The weak are weeded out, and the strong rebuild upon the memory of them, upon their ashes, upon their bones.

Sounds like someone read a fucked up book and took the concept a little too far, started preaching destruction like a sermon to the lost, frightened souls that made it past the first stages of the beginning of the end of the world as they once knew it. This was their salvation, following the lead of the strongest and trying to keep up. If their protectors told them to demolish schools being built, they would do it.

If their leaders said that educators must be stopped, they would put a stop to it.

Collateral damage means nothing in the scheme of things, right?

Ironic and strangely fitting, most of those rebels lost their lives demolishing the old world, and now all the bystanders were left behind to pick up the remnants of it. Fairness had died long ago though, and Kilik just can't find it within himself to be surprised by the outcome. Woeful resignation settled into his bones when he turned ten and his mama made him go to school on his birthday all the same.

This is just like that, except a million, trillion fucking times worse.

Not that it matters, not anymore, his opinion of this new world is irrelevant. The objective is to survive and create anew.

Creation for the sake of it.

Creation because it's his job.

Those who create should not be emotionally invested, the inevitable destruction of what you bring into this world is just a part of the job description.

Like they used to say in those old movies.

Nothin' personal kid. It's just business.

As he drowns in the wailing sorrow of those people he tried _so hard _to create for, he wishes with all he's got that it were an option to quit.

He's selfish.

He's _just a kid._

He finds it funny in a morbid way, how so many are starving, sick, dying, and yet weapons are always plentiful amongst what few rebels are left it seems. Amazing how so few could consume so much, do such harm. The idea at the start of this had been something he might've fought for; a new beginning for all, a world where everyone had purpose.

He doesn't know why they're still called rebels. It is a dictatorship, few ruling over many, voices of the people torn from their throats if ever they dare to openly defy. Those so called rebels follow their queen like drones, hardly even human anymore.

He still retches every time he has to cut one down though. Their minds are twisted, but their blood is black, he knows these weren't decisions they made for themselves, and it seems like he can never quite scrub that from beneath his nails anymore. This wasn't exactly what he imagined being sixteen would be like back when he was in second grade. He imagined it with a lot more cute girls, maybe some video games and a car to drive, lame high school parties and drama and rumours.

Not trying to identify who's brain matter is who's so he can give people proper burials.

He's done things now that his younger self would have sent him to the Gallows for. He had been so sure of this place this time. It was a safe haven. He was helping rebuild the school and resupplying the medical center. There was plenty of canned food and rice stowed away, clean water to drink and cook with.

The children were healthy.

It almost seemed like they could really make a place for themselves away from all of the chaos and insanity.

They had made it almost four months in one place before a snake in the grass infiltrated their little city. She had seemed nice enough, if not a bit shy. Eruka even played with the kids at recess.

A Trojan horse.

She brought the venom and her affiliates followed, spread it in the form of blazing fires and kidnappings of the youngest.

Recruits.

Experimental subjects, ripe for the picking.

So many were taken in the ambush, and in the aftermath of it at the light of dawn, he was certain no children would be left. Maybe it would have been better that way. Less mouths to feed, no need for schools or emotional decency. They could all revert back to the animalistic atrocities they could be, back to survival mode without a care for anything else. It would be so much easier.

Then he had found them camouflaged in soot and fear, cowering in a corner of an abandoned storage unit.

Two children, twins, dark skin and light eyes, eyes filled with the echos of the horrors they'd witnessed, the deaths they watches, the abductions they could do nothing about.

And that sense of obligation hit him so hard in the chest that he couldn't breathe. He was positive from the looks on their faces, they had no one left. All other townspeople were deceased or had fled.

That left him.

Of course, in this world, it was always an option to leave them behind, go and find a new home and try to settle down, forget the atrocities he's committed and watched, forget just how fucked up the world is.

But they're just kids, hardly twelve at best, and it's unfortunate, but even through all this change, all this horror and deconstruction of the world, somehow his moral code has remained intact.

Unfortunately.

When he reached for them, they cringed away, and for some reason it hurt so deeply. Just knowing that even if he could take them away from here, they'll never trust again. He's a broken child trying to mend other broken children and there is no happy ending in this life.

But he knew this already.

He tries though, because it's all he can do.

"Are you alright?"

No answer.

"Your parents?"

They point to a pile of ash and bone across the street, their jaws clenched and eyes glassy.

_Shit._

"Um.. I ah. Sorry. But we gotta get outta here."

They shake their heads in unison, and his patience grows thinner, more fragile. Surely they understand the danger, they watched the place burn to the ground.

"Listen, I wanna get the hell out of this wasteland as soon as possible but there's no way in hell I'm gonna leave you here. So either we all wait for those creeps to come back and finish us off, or we move. _Now."_

The boy sniffles haughtily, his sister gripping his arm so tightly her knuckles go pale, but he nods and pulls his sister upright, eyeing Kilik warily. Kilik rolls his eyes, but in reality, he truly understands. He can't be offended.

"What're your names?"

They shake their heads, and god it's irritating, but he just shrugs.

"Guess I'm just gonna call you thing one and thing two until you finally speak up then. C'mon kiddies, let's blow this popsicle stand."

He thanks the God he's unsure truly exists when they follow him as he leaves behind yet another shattered home.


	2. Last Living Souls

Note: I don't own Gorillaz or Soul Eater, I'm just incredibly inspired by both. I'm really excited about this project, so I hope you guys enjoy! Thanks to Lunar Resonance, Ilarual, and Professor Maka for their beta work. You guys are fantastic. This is rated T for now, just due to language and mature themes. It may change in the future.

* * *

He never really minded living in the desert until everything went to hell. It was easy enough to get water shipped into town. Hell, people even ran sprinklers so their lawns would be vibrant green, softening the harshness of it all; The scalding sand, poisonous critters, and spiny plants that had it out for your shins could almost be forgotten with those plush, lush lawns.

But the shipments of supplies stopped a while ago. It's times like these he's grateful to his grandpa for always giving him gifts of guidebooks and survival guides. He'd like to thank whoever decided that nopales should be grown in the wild around here

The twins don't enjoy them much, but it's kept them alive for the past three days. He hears no verbal complains.

Actually, he hears nothing from them at all, and he thinks if he doesn't hear another voice soon he's going to start to go a little insane.

It's day four when he finally snaps. Just a little.

"I know you can fucking hear me cause you flinch every time the wind blows too loudly. Come on you little shits, why won't you talk?" Internally he reminds himself that giving acquaintances unsavoury nicknames is a quick and easy way to get on their bad side, but right now he just wishes one of them would fucking _speak- _one single word would be enough for his sanity to remain intact for a few more days- it's all he needs!

He's hungry, and he's angry, and the only voices he's heard other than his own in half a week were the screams of the torched and the damned, so when the twins just stare at him blankly, well…

He shamefully, but rightfully, _loses his shit._

"How fucking old are you two? And you're giving me the goddamn silent treatment?! What the fuck did I do to you other than take you away from a wasteland?! I'm sorry, did you want to stay and make friends with the piles of bones?! God, I know what this is- I _know what this is_. It's a cosmic joke, right?" He edges on hysterics as he muses, "I bet you don't even speak English, fuckitall. What'd I _do, _God?" His voice tapers off into a forlorn mumble as he drops to the dirt, leaning his elbows on his camouflage pants before taking off his fractured glasses and pressing his palms into his closed eyes until he sees spots, "_What did I __**do**__?"_

"Oi," a deep voice interrupts the antagonistic silence, very clearly not originating from _either _of his 'companions', and Kilik reels backwards, scooting away from the voice as fast as possible. When he looks up, he sees the blurred image of some old, hunched over dude… but, _wait._

He blinks the blurriness and spots from his eyes, perching his spectacles back upon his nose, and on further inspection, he finds that the old dude in question is actually a rather young dude with hair as white as the snow he's never felt on his skin and bloody red eyes that set Kilik's nerves on edge. He grabs both of the twins by the backs of their shirts when he scrambles to his feet and pulls them behind him before poising himself for a fight.

"Alright, calm your tits Tyson. Was just gonna ask if you and your ah, kids? Brother and sister? What the fuck ever man, you guys thirsty?"

Kilik regains his composure and quickly realizes just how much of an asshat this guy is, canteen offering be damned. He may be somewhat delirious, but his douche-dar is up and running just fine.

"Okay so, you just nicknamed me after the only black boxer you can remember off the top of your head, assumed these _little shits_ were my kids, and then thought it'd all be fine if you offered us some water?"

The not-that-old dude with the ragged q-tip hairdo scratches at the back of his neck, cheeks pink from something other than sun, something Kilik recognizes as embarrassment.

"Look dude, I'm still getting used to the whole… people thing again. It's been a while. Harv won't let me forget it. Sorry if I came across as a dick, but really, you need to drink something, all of you. This desert is hotter than satan's asshole."

The guy seems sincere in his apology, and when Kilik sniffs the canteen, he doesn't detect any chemical odor of any kind, though he tests it first before letting the twins try it. He accepts the apology, though somewhat begrudgingly.

"You know from experience?"

Canteen-asshole guy snorts.

"Yeah, you could say that. Soul." He extends his hand in greeting, and Kilik grasps it tightly, maybe a little more tightly than he normally would, but he wants to get the point across; no one is going to walk all over him.

Not when he has others to protect, too.

"Funny name, huh?"

"Yeah, well, what's yours then?"

He blanches.

"Kilik."

Soul scoffs, dagger like teeth peeking from between his lips. It's not the first time Kilik has seen this, and the implications make his stomach turn. He ignores the ideas of this guy's- no- this _kid's _past- that seem to glue themselves to the insides of his eyelids. Every time he blinks, he sees a freeze frame of the scrawny dude in front of him burying his teeth into an opponent, of Soul tearing out chunks of hair and clawing at eyes to get his meal.

Hey, times are tough all around, right?

Maybe a little tougher for some than for others.

Soul stares at Kilik for a moment, eyes unsettlingly focused, before he blinks, cracking a sharp grin and laughing, "And you're giving me shit for my name?"

Kilik glowers, "Fuck off dude."

"Yeah yeah, whatever. What about them?" Soul gestures to the twins, who both stare blankly at him for a good couple of moments before Kilik opens his mouth to speak, and they steal the air right out of his lungs.

"What about us, Frosty?" the girl asks, voice dripping with thinly veiled disdain. Kilik would be impressed if he weren't so fucking pissed. Four days in fucking silence, un_**fuckingbelievable**_ …

"Oh ho- I like you, kid. You just might survive this clusterfuck. What's your name, shortstack?"

The girl's brother cuts in before she can answer, voice cracking slightly but harsh, a growl as he says, "None of your fucking business, Dracula. Find a cup of holy water and drown in it."

Soul grins.

"Oh, you'll _definitely _make it."

* * *

It takes some serious convincing on Soul's part, promises of clean cots and scorpion free areas and legitimate meals spouting forth from him. Kilik notices that Soul's pupils are unusually large for the desert sun. He keeps a sharp rock in a clenched fist he tucks in his pocket, and makes the twins walk behind him, acting as a barrier between them and their new, overly-generous...

_Acquaintance._

The sun is grueling, and Kilik guesstimates the time to be around 1:00 PM, judging from where the sun sneers down at them from the sky. When he rolls his shoulders to pop the joints and release the muscle tension, his skin feels _crispy. _Now he knows why Casper wears long sleeves even in the heat. Can't be fun being albino in the desert.

Now that he thinks about it, he's pretty sure he learned something about the genetics involved, and he distinctly remembers that the lack of pigment in the eyes of people affected by albinism should make them rather sensitive to light.

He glances at Soul, who stares unblinkingly into the pale, broiling sand, gaze never wavering even as he studies with the waves of heat that ripple off the earth.

Something about this dude is seriously _off, _and Kilik is starting to regret giving in to the allure of food and shelter. They should have just told Soul to fuck off and stuck with the nopales. Shit.

The younger boy who claims no name sneers in his most irritatingly whiny voice, "'Ey Sharkbait, _are we there yet?"_

Soul just chuckles though, never looking back, demeanor somewhat distracted as he says,"I like this, can we all have our very own codenames? You guys can be thing one and thing two, Kilik what say you?"

Kilik stops dead in his tracks.

Nope.

No fucking way. This is not okay.

This is really, _really_ not _okay._

Kilik watches Soul sluff another twelve paces before the realization seems to strike him that he's no longer being followed. When he turns around, his irises are almost black, demonic, _bottomless,_ but the furrow in his brow and his open stance show a strange trust and vulnerability that Kilik would never expect from someone of Soul's disposition. Still, he pushes the twins back another few steps.

"How the _fuck_ did you know what I call them?"

Kilik notes every little movement, every nervous tic. Soul's hands are shoved into his pockets now, his shoulders hunched, his lip nearly bloodied between his serrated teeth, but when he speaks again, he sounds almost- bored?

"Chill the fuck out, dude. Everyone knows Dr. Seuss."

And he turns, once again stalking in the direction he'd been leading them. There's a mountain a little ways off, and Kilik silently hopes that this so called camp will be at it's base, and there will be some friendlier faces to be seen there.

He follows, the twins flanking him, the girl's fingers wrapped tight into the cloth of his tank top, firm but frightened and oh so strangely frail.

Kilik feels something drip down his shoulders, knowing it's not sweat, knowing his skin has fractured like baked clay thrown against the pavement he's been avoiding for years. Stay away from the cities, they said. It's a cesspool of crime and moral depravity, they said. At this point, he wouldn't mind the looting and prostitution and "trades", he just wants a glass of cold fucking water and a bed to sleep in, maybe a little shade for a place to rest and heal his agitated psyche and scorched flesh.

He stares at Soul's feet, focusing on each step rather than the massive amount of steps between them and the base of the mountain. His eyes tear up from the occasional dust devils that kick up, but doesn't focus on that. He instead focuses on the strange way Soul's steps falter, almost fearfully, every time the earth whips itself into a sandy little storm. Ferocious beast, eh?

Afraid of a little dust?

Everything about this whole goddamn situation feels _wrong, _wrong in a way that hugs his ribs impossibly tight and makes his knees lock if he's not careful. This is a classic case of 'no other choice' and he hates it. It wouldn't matter as much if he were alone, but he isn't. He isn't one person anymore, he's three, and his actions as well as their consequences don't just affect him.

He was always taught to follow his instincts and be aware of the vibes that people give off, and while Soul doesn't seem like an active threat, he also doesn't seem very reliable or stable either.

"We're here."

Fuck, for someone who prides himself on being observant, it shames Kilik greatly to realize that he _didn't _realize how close they'd gotten. He blames it on the persistent lack of shade and shakes the discomfort from his mind. He has to have his shit together for this, he has to be on guard.

"Fucking _finally, _my toes feel like they're in a God's vice grip. There better be soft places to sit in this hellhole or I'll-"

"You'll what, little brother, call the front desk and complain?"

"Hey you're _literally 42 seconds older than me, _don't get all prissy just cause you're crushing on Mr. Phantom over there. Loser."

"Shut _up _he's like 80 and whacked out on drugs or something. You're so gross."

Kilik might've thought the argument was amusing or even cute if it weren't for the fact that they're so goddamn annoying at the worst of times. He can't believe he wished they'd talk only a few hours ago. Unbelievable.

"Hey Eater, you got some new recruits?"

Kilik tries not to shudder at the nickname, so nonchalantly tossed around like an _endearment _by some buffoon with _blue and brown ombre hair? _It's like he just got dropped into the center of a goddamn circus. Fucking hell.

He decides to get straight to the point, not bothering with pleasantries.

"Hear you've got clean water and food."

"If you swear your undying allegiance to your mighty saviour Black*Star, you'll have all the food and water you desire. Hell, I'll even toss some fine ladies into the deal. Or ya know, dudes, androgynous types, whatever floats your boat bro."

Kilik opens his mouth to reply and finds himself without words.

The one who calls himself Black Star, some 17 years of age _at best, _and a full two inches shorter than Kilik, puffs up his chest in pride. Kilik's eyelid twitches. Did that actually warrant a response? Is he _actually_ supposed to give an answer?

He's given no time to ponder it further when the guy starts laughing boisterous belly laughs before strolling forward and slinging a muscular, scarred tan arm across his overcooked shoulders.

He doesn't wince.

His grip is on the stone once again. The guy pulls him a few inches closer to the earth, weighing him down when he chuckles, " oh dude, I'm just fuckin with ya. But I am the one you'll follow to salvation. Kitchen is over thataway."

He points off to a large tented area bustling with people, seemingly of a variety of ages, much to Kilik's relief. Maybe someone will want to adopt his little pottymouthed scoundrels.

The twins sprint, yanking each other back by their tattered collars when one gets a lead, spouting the most creative of profanities, and Kilik thinks…

Nah. Never gonna happen. They'll be his problem till the devil sets him free.

Everything is painfully loud as they get closer to camp, the chatter of life somehow already so foreign though mere days ago it was commonplace for him. His ears ring and his skin crawls, head throbbing, and the dizziness is getting hard to ignore, but he has to; uncharted territory is no place to show weakness.

His knuckles ache from the way he grips his stone, his last line of defense. It would be funny if it weren't so fucking pathetic, if _he_ weren't _so fucking pathetic. _He's not felt this defenseless since he was twelve and his mom brought home that bad, bad man that he was supposed to call 'dad'. Black Star has the good grace to shut his fucking trap for the minute it takes to walk to the cafeteria tent, though he stands uncomfortably close.

Kilik wants to tell him to back off, but he feels like he's going to black out pretty soon, so having something to fall on other than scalding hot fucking sand sounds like a good alternative.

What is he thinking, he _needs to get his shit together._

Why is everything so blurry?

He reaches to readjust his glasses on his nose, but they're where they should be, if a little worse for the wear, and that's when those little spots start to speckle his vision. He feels a strong grip catch him beneath his arm, and he grasps for the stone in his pocket but his hands aren't his own anymore, vague and staticky, a once tangible thing become a concept lost. He fights against the overwhelming feeling of being dragged into the haze, under the tide of shattered bones and glass and stone, eyes searching for the twins.

He can't go under if they aren't safe. He made a fucking promise, and his godforsaken body sure as hell isn't going to keep him from upholding it, not now, not in this lifetime.

He finds them in the shade, cautiously accepting food from a tall, beautiful, ash-blonde woman, and before he can truly take a moment to appreciate what he's seeing, the protectiveness in the woman's stance and the kindness in her gaze, the image is eaten away by the void of darkness, a slow-burned page. In that final moment before he's completely overtaken, he laments the way strength of will can only take one so far.

* * *

"Hey. Rise 'n' shine sleeping beauty. You got chores 'n' shit."

His head throbs insistently, parched lips cracking as he opens his mouth to inquire a feeble, "who's there" that comes out in a pathetic rasp. The only answer he gets is the curved ridge of warm aluminum pressing against his bottom lip. His brain is foggy, slow on the uptake as the same, feminine childish voice orders, "Drink, idiot, or you'll die," and that instinct to mistrust strangers is obscured completely by the haze left behind by Death's begrudging retreat, his lips parting to drink greedily.

He chokes immediately, the liquid searing his throat.

A dainty, surprisingly strong hand slaps him square in the back as the voice continues, "Oh cmon you big baby, that's triple distilled, it should go down like water!"

Kilik squawks out, "If It's _not _water, _what the fuck is it?!_"

"Newest batch of Thompson Tannerite Tonic, patent pending! I take it you're not a fan, but gimme a little time and I'll warm you up to it. Here, have some water to wash it down."

Kilik's eyes meet wide, blue ones, framed closely with strangely neat, dirty blonde hair. The rosiness in her cheeks reminds him of the dolls that used to line his grandmother's shelves, but the slightly manic gleam in her gaze helps him make the decision to not mention his musings, as does the aching burn in his throat.

The girl shoves a different cup into his hands, the contents of which he sniffs, his deep seated habit returned full force. When he determines this cup isn't filled with _liquid fucking fire_ and takes a sip, the girl takes a step back, only to joust the air in front of him with an outstretched hand.

He doesn't flinch.

Seriously.

If she notices his reluctance to shake her hand, she doesn't show it, merely crushes his palm in her grip and gives him a formal greeting that shifts his entire body in the process, his arm feeling unnervingly similar to a noodle.

The girl says, "I'm Patti, nice to meetcha dude! Sissy saved your glasses, here."

She procures his spectacles seemingly from thin air, the previously taped together temple fixed anew. He studies doesn't put them on immediately, instead taking a moment to study the handiwork. He was sure he'd never be able to fold them again, but he had been mistaken. When he looks from his specs up to Patti, she holds both hands up, a gesture almost of surrender, and tells him, "Don't look at me, I just collect the cool knick knacks Kimmy brings around, Lizzie is the one who fixed em for ya. In fact, you should go thank her yourself, cmon, let's meet everyone!"

Kilik's vision is still wobbling like he's a bobblehead suction cupped to a 1700 horsepower monster truck dashboard, and he hardly has his glasses perched on his nose before Patti is dragging him along behind her, chattering animatedly about the 'family' and how well he'll fit in with the lot. He struggles to push the words from his raw throat, his sunbaked lips cracking when he asks, "The twins?", but she just waves him off, not missing a step as she explains,

"They're still with sissy, came by about an hour ago to make sure you weren't dead or nothin'. They're sure are somethin', huh?" She looks back at him expectantly, still dragging him along, and he just grunts out a raspy 'yep' so she'll watch where she's goddamn dragging them. She cracks a grin, then returns to her chattering, oblivious or uncaring as to whether or not he's ready to do this.

As he trips over his own clumsy, useless toes, head throbbing insistently with every step, every word, he silently contemplates how many horsepower would it take to keep a person like that going, meaningless, well timed 'mhm's falling from his lips.


End file.
